Fetish
by Anna-Salem
Summary: She had been warned, but Bridget Von Hammersmark had no idea of the power she held over this man.
1. Chapter 1

The Charmer. Marlena had warned her about him. Her friend was fairly indiscriminate when it came to men: good teeth, lots of money, and a hardened cock were all she needed in a lover. And yet even that raven-haired slut had shied away from Colonel Hans Landa.

She partially believed that her friend had simply made up the whole ordeal. She'd met Landa briefly that night, and he seemed to be a man of taste, of sophistication. Marlena was two steps up from common street trash. A trusted friend, a confidante to trade sordid secrets with, yes, but Bridget had no illusions about her caliber.

So when Marlena, dressed in impossible heels and a cheap black dress that displayed more than it should, her face made up to hide both age and desperation, whispered to Bridget that the Colonel had approached her at the party that evening, Bridget had merely smiled.

"And?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"And…" her friend hesitated, "and he propositioned me."

She could have laughed then, right in the stupid girl's face. But of course a man of Landa's standing would mistake her for a whore! Bridget maintained a cool demeanor, puffing lightly on her cigarette.

"Did you accept?"

Marlena shifted uncomfortably, clutching at fake pearls in false modesty, "I'm not that kind of girl, Bridget. He wanted me to do…strange things. Things that no self-respecting actress would dream of. Don't let him get to you, Bridget. Don't trust him."

Her friend fancied herself something of an actress, though Bridget had yet to see any of her work. She often wondered why she let the classless woman tag along with her, but was quick to remember that Marlena knew all of her secrets. Every girl needed a crutch, someone to rely on to make her look that much better. Marlena was excellent in that capacity, because next to her kohl-caked eyes and overly rouged cheeks, Bridget was the fresh-faced beauty that all of the producers were after.

Years later, Bridget met Landa again. She was now a famous actress, and her long-forgotten friend was married off to some rich French Nazi sympathizer. But the words still rang as clearly as if she had heard them moments before. Don't trust him.

"Good evening, Fraulein Von Hammersmark," the Colonel took her gloved hand into his, gripping her fingers, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "It has been a while since I've had this pleasure. May I say that you look ravishing this evening?"

She didn't often blush. She simply took compliments as fact, and yet this was the exception. Landa's eyes conveyed a playfulness and daring she hadn't encountered before.

"Why thank you, Colonel. This dress was especially made for the event," She glanced around to the other women at the party, proving that no one else possessed a gown that compared to the finely cut and tailored plum confection clinging to her hips. He nodded knowingly, allowing his gaze to travel her length, his eyes pausing at the raised hemline that revealed her very expensive matching shoes.

"Well, you are always at the height of fashion, Bridget Von Hammersmark."

They locked eyes. The way he said her name was a challenge. He stared her down, his face a mask of tedium with just a hint of a smile on his lips, as if figuring out some joke that she was yet to be part of.

She pretended to turn away to take a sip of her champagne, but really she couldn't stand to look at him any longer. Maybe Marlena was right; maybe he was dangerous. Something lurked beneath the glass surface of the Inspector, something risky. She was already playing a deadly game with her burgeoning involvements against the S. S. The last thing Bridget needed was the Reich's leading interrogator learning of her distasteful deeds.

And now here they were, again meeting him at a formal gala premiere, though this one was far more important than any they had attended previously. Tonight, Aldo the Apache and The Bear Jew were her escorts. Tonight she played the deadliest game.

The moment he inquired about her cast was the moment she felt all of the blood drain her face. Thankfully she had applied her make-up flawlessly, hiding the bruises and pallor of having nearly died in the shooting the night prior. Her hair was perfect, her dress bold yet elegant. She had been confident that she could pull it off. She wished Marlena weren't off having children and being a boring old cow; she sorely could have used that unique talent of making her look better.

Bridget struggled to maintain the façade, but when Colonel Landa begged her into the nearest office with a nod and a polite smile, she knew the game was up. She hobbled into the room, allowing him to play the gentleman by offering her a seat. He placed his coat onto the chair behind her, before pulling up a chair of his own.

Sitting directly across from her, alone together, Bridget was finally able to study the man. He was handsome in the distinguished way that only older men can be, the patches of gray at his temples the single sign of his age. A slight smile, which always seemed to hang off of him, was off-putting, especially as he asked her to put her foot into his lap.

The request took her off guard. She had expected him to bring her into the office, to ask her a barrage of questions regarding her strange guests and the circumstances surrounding her injury. But she hadn't expected this.

He tapped his knee impatiently. She complied demurely, sliding her uninjured leg up and extending it until her long limb was resting against his, her tiny and impeccably lacquered toes shining like blood in the dimly lit space. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he raised his arms, his hands hovering above her calf, before plucking at the bejeweled strap of her heels. Landa was concentrating, careful not to touch her skin, and she studied his face as her performed the action of removing her shoe.

His index finger graced her heel as he slid the shoe from her foot, the contact surprising both of them. Her skin was cool, his burning hot. She wondered if this was the opportunity she needed.

As he sat frozen, holding her shoe as if it were a fragile glass slipper, staring indiscernibly at her small, delicate foot, Bridget had an idea. It started with a wiggle. She moved her toes, to see how he would react. The action caught his attention immediately. His face, which she had now studied extensively, twitched. The calculated look of playful boredom dissipated, and now his rapt attention was on her, or more specifically, her foot. She shifted, pointing her toes so that her foot rested completely against his thigh, then pulled back. Landa's eyes almost rolled back into his skull. Her expensive shoe clattered to the floor.

She felt his hand graze her skin again, tentatively, finger tracing the curve of her arch. A single finger encircled the smooth ball of her foot, testing her. She giggled seductively.

"Inspector…that tickles."

As if unable to take it any longer, he lurched forward, his face reddened and glistening with sweat. Taking her foot roughly into his hand, he brought it to his lips, kissing her arch with feverous abandon. Bridget sat in stunned silence, watching him relish every square inch. The sight of his tongue between her toes did not arouse her, but it was obviously having that effect on him. If her other foot had not been bound in that cast, she might have placed it into the juncture between his thighs.

After what felt like hours, the Colonel had his fill, though she could see that he was still hard. Perhaps she had bought herself another day of living by escaping his incriminating questions. If she offered herself to him, it was possible that he would forget the Basterds in the cinema altogether. Bridget almost smiled at how crude she had become.


	2. Chapter 2

The air was warm, blazing in fact. She could feel her curls falling limp; she watched the Colonel do the same. Her heart thudded loudly, knowing that her plan was losing momentum.

"Miss Von Hammersmark," he sat back in his chair, reddened face losing some of its passionate color. He cleared his throat before reaching into the front pocket of his well-decorated jacket. Pursing her lips, she stilled herself, expecting to be face-to-face with a pistol. Instead, he retrieved a small black comb and began to right his sandy hair. In three efficient strokes he was back to normal, gazing at her with lidded hazel eyes.

"I would be remiss if I said that I didn't find you alluring. At this moment, I would be the envy of half the men in Germany," he paused, as if letting that notion sink in, "But I am also not a fool."

Bridget hardened, "I know that, Colonel." She withdrew her bare foot from his lap, noting the way his eyes followed the movement.

"Then we are at an impasse. I cannot let you leave this room."

She held her breath, plans and ideas fleeting formlessly through her mind, wishing she had half the quick-witted intelligence of the man in front of her.

"A deal, then?" The actress sat up, trying to make herself as tall as he, which was not difficult to do. She also tried to match his expression, curving her lips into a wry smile.

Landa tilted his head to one side, studying her, considering what she could possibly have to offer, "I'm listening?"

She had no other choice, launching into her raw plan, "Those three men in there, they're not Italians as you obviously have guessed." He chuckled. "They are the Basterds, the man in the white jacket is Aldo Raine."

He wrinkled his brow, "You insult me, Von Hammersmark, if you think that I did not know all of this."

"Ahh, but did you know that I have been working with the OSS for over three years?" That information visually struck a chord. His eyes widened.

"Three years? You naughty minx," he grinned, "I knew you were working for them, but I had no idea how long. Do you think, Fraulein," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "that it is wise to reveal this to me?"

She leaned forward, as well, masking her petrifying fear, "Only if you want in."

He reached forward, grasping both of her gloved hands, pulling her roughly forward, "And what would make you think that I want to betray the Nazi regime?"

Fear stung her eyes and choked her breath, and yet she continued as if she had thought of these plans months before, as if the dashing man before her was part of it the whole time, "Because I know you aren't really part of it. I can get the OSS to grant you amnesty. I can get you out of this."

Gripping her wrists together tightly, the man they called Jew Hunter, decorated in his finest evening regalia, considered her offer. Would he share the credit with her? He was going to lose this war either way, but would he go down in flames or would he go down as a supposed hero?

"You can guarantee all that, can you?" He asked, the bemused smile as close to her face as it had ever been. "And I've heard critics declare you a terrible actress, Miss Von Hammersmark."

He released her and stood. Strolling to the liquor cabinet, he produced two stout glasses and whiskey.

"I must say," he poured two generous drinks, "that I am impressed with your ideas. Don't think for one moment that I believe you would have told them to me if you hadn't thought yourself in danger." He handed her a glass, "And you were, you realize," Landa pulled away his coat, revealing a Luger strapped to his hip. "But I'm afraid that I am in the position to make the rules here, Bridget, not you."

It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. Either it was a sign in her favor, or things were about to go terribly, terribly wrong.

He sat down again, sipping his drink, smacking his lips, and setting the drink on the desk behind him.

"I accept your offer, but I have some conditions of my own."

She exhaled, "You have but to ask-"

"I want you."

Sitting back, she brought a hand to her throat, "Colonel…"

He shook his head, his hand waving away pretense as if it were a pesky insect, "I have had my share of undercooked starlets, Fraulein. A man of my," he hesitated, "status has his fill," Landa finished the whiskey, "I have certain needs that many women find repulsive, but that you may understand."

For the first time, Bridget could see some underlying frailty in the Inspector. Vulnerability. The advantage was hers. "Go on."

"I request that, once we have established my amnesty, you must make yourself available to me any time I wish."

She laughed, though the Colonel's expression assured her that this was no jest, "Any time? For all of your illicit purposes, Colonel? You take me for a whore?"

Landa smirked, "You are buying your life today, Fraulein."


	3. Chapter 3

The office was strangely quiet for some time. Landa poured another drink, and they listened to the bullets flying across the screen in the next room. Occasional bursts of cheers emanated from the theater, until finally the premiere was over.

"We should leave," He glanced at his pocket watch, "Now."

Colonel Landa grabbed her by the arm, practically dragging her out to the street and into the back alley of some building. She heard the deafening noise of an explosion, smelled the charred remains of burnt wood. Standing on one shoeless foot in stunned silence, she wrenched her arm free of his grip, and listened to the crackling sounds of victory.

***

He insisted that she accompany him to the awards ceremony, though she had been given a private invitation of her own. When he met her at the door of her rented room in London, he was dressed in a finely tailored double-breasted black suit coat, this time adorned with none of the decorations she was used to seeing.

Bridget dressed demurely in a crimson, floor-length gown. Her leg, fresh from its cast, was sickeningly pale, so she wore black stockings to conceal their ugliness. The bullet-holes stood out in a stark plum color, reminding her that Aldo Raine and his living compatriots would be in attendance that night. She felt her stomach clench at the thought of joining the traitorous former Colonel as his date while the Basterds looked on.

But a deal was a deal, and Bridget couldn't say no to accepting an award from the OSS for her services to them. Three years of her life had been spent dangerously fighting for a cause that she believed in. She may have been merely a German actress, but damned if she was going to let this chance for national fame escape her.

As soon as she opened the door she knew it was a mistake. Landa licked his lips once, twice, letting his eyes travel her as if he hadn't seen her in years. In reality it had only been days; the night of the fire, he had dragged her to the nearest operator, phoned the OSS, and sealed the deal. Say what she would about the man, but he was certainly efficient.

"I like your hair this way," he remarked, holding his arm out to her, "You should wear it like that from now on." Her hand, clad in a black silken glove, traveled to the ornate ebony combs that held her blond curls in place. She wondered if she should thank him or pull them out.

In heels, Bridget was as tall as the man. At times as they walked she thought that he was annoyed by this fact. He held himself very high, his nose pointed upward slightly, as if trying to match her in height and demeanor. Without his decorations, he was just another traitor. At least her occupation didn't leave her with much blame. He had been a commanding officer of the regime, after all. He needed as much confidence as he could get that night, as there were sure to be some questions as to his loyalty. Bridget smirked.

Every step was a struggle. Her leg was still quite sore - an ache that she wasn't sure would ever fully disappear. They climbed into a beautiful car and were transported to the party, where they would mingle with grateful members of the British army and be lavished with praise and honors. At least she would.

"You seem tense, my dear," he said, with a slight smile. This man was constantly amused by everything, it seemed.

"I'm just a bit apprehensive. About the party."

He shrugged, "Nothing to be concerned about, Fraulein Von Hammersmark," he placed a hand on her kneecap, "The party is the least of your worries."

***

The partygoers were far more polite to the Colonel than she had anticipated, and many continued to address him by his former title. He even received a medal of courage, one that she had not even been told of, and it sat proudly on his chest, mocking her.

"Is that Bridget Von Hammersmark yonder?" The unmistakable drawl of Aldo Raine filled her ears. She grimaced, still attached to the arm of Hans Landa.

"Ah, Aldo," Landa smiled, "I see the tables have turned, and now I have the pleasure of the lovely lady on my arm."

Raine was dressed in the same white suit he had worn to the theater, and he eyed Landa's medal with a mixture of contempt and jealousy that Bridget hoped hadn't shown on her own face. He leaned close to the shorter man, whispering in his ear. Landa's face went blank for a moment, his eyes darkened, but immediately he reverted back to his jovial self. Aldo walked away.

"What did he say?"

Landa touched her face very briefly with the back of his hand, "He said, 'I should gut you right here, you Nazi Pig.' Charming fellow."

"Inspector-"

"How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Hans."

She furrowed her brow, "…Hans. You have your award, we have spoken to everyone here. I would like to go home."

Landa's smile widened, "Why, mon cherie, can you barely contain your excitement?"

Her throat tightened. She wanted to go home, not to the rented flat in London, but to her estate in the city until she could contact her agent and begin a new film. Landa had other plans, it seemed.

While he had not yet asked anything of her except to accompany him to the party, the bargain leered over her like some dormant disease. Nothing about this arrangement excited her, and she had been the receiving end of unwanted attention countless times before. Any actress in her position would flirt with an undesirable man if it meant landing a role in their film. But this was a bit different. This man was dangerous. This man owned her.

Though he was still smiling, his brow was raised and his eyes burned, demanding her notice. Perhaps he would require her just once, just tonight, and he would be finished with her. She could travel back to Munich, what was left of it anyway, and be done with their bargain for good. Just tonight.

She turned on her best smile, showing off glistening white teeth and ruby lips. Men loved that, and he was not an exception.

"Colonel," she hoped that the use of his title would excite him, "I am ready to leave."

***

The moment they stepped into the darkened flat, he closed and locked the door behind them. His sudden action startled her, but she attempted to remain very calm. Seduction had never been her strong suit, and she hadn't had to use her charms in a few years, but for as little romance as she had in her life nothing could have prepared her for that night.

"I am going to kiss you," he said, without asking, and pulled her forward. She nearly stumbled into his arms. His lips were warm but thin, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. He tasted of sweets, she of wine. Too much wine. She was dizzy.

"Ma beaute," his arms encircled her, tugging her toward what might have be a settee or a bed, or some surface upon which to force her down onto. She acknowledged what a man of such intense passions he was, something she should have guessed by the dedication to his job.

Pushing her back against a plush velvet divan, he began to fumble with the straps of her gown. She liked to witness the utterly helpless craving of a man who knew nothing of a woman's' garments, liked to watch his frantic struggles to free her coveted body. The tear of fabric made her frown; she quite liked this dress.

Baring her shoulder, he trailed his lips along her skin, stopping to bite the flesh just north of her collarbone. She hissed at the sudden pain. He stood leaning over her, his pelvis thrusting her legs apart, and she felt the extent to which his excitement presented itself. She could easily knee him in the groin and remove herself from the situation, but she also noted the beloved luger pistol strapped to his hip.


	4. Chapter 4

For a man of such renowned prowess handling suspected enemies of the S. S., Hans Landa was a fumbling, sweaty wreck handling the object of his desires. His hands were disproportionately large for such a slight body, which made Bridget wonder about his other endowments. She immediately shook her head, chastising herself for even hosting such a thought.

The rented room was darkly luxuriant. She passed the time as the Colonel buried his square-jawed face into her expertly styled tresses. That morning she had dabbed a bit of perfume in her hair, remembering his wide-eyed reaction to her scent on a previous outing. The night they had arrived in London had been quiet; his hand remained on her upper thigh the entire trip, as if staking his claim. Bridget was proud that she did not squirm even once. And now she prevented herself from shuddering at his slightly sweaty touch by focusing on the lush fabrics and brocaded wallpaper.

"You know, every man in the room wanted you tonight," she could almost hear him grinning; like it was some personal triumph, like she was unaware of that fact. He spoke into her ear, his breath causing her delicate diamond earrings to tinkle like tiny bells against her flesh. His hand lingered on the curve of her jaw, the same feature that had gotten her noticed as a non-speaking role in her first picture. Tracing her white skin with a calloused finger, the Colonel was gentler than she had expected.

She'd prepared for this night. Up until now, Landa's request had gone unfulfilled: a few public meetings, attending the same parties, traveling together. Yet she had known all the while, from the covert way that he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking, to the casual caresses of her kneecap at the theatre, that soon he would want his end of the bargain. So she'd taken extra care to make herself desirable: her skin was pumiced smooth, her body slippery with her favorite cream, toenails lacquered a deadly red. She donned emerald green lingerie with black velvet trim and a garter belt with black stockings under her dress, hoping to whatever God still existed that Hans Landa was a stockings man.

His hands traveled the length of her as she reclined on the divan. He pulled the fabric up and over her knees, his eyes belying exactly what she had hoped for. She felt one finger slip beneath a garter strap.

"Why, Fraulein," she hated that address, "You go to such lengths to excite me." He was obviously pleased.

Immediately, the Colonel sank to his knees, taking her right foot into his hands, and, same as their meeting in the office that day in the doom cinema, he carefully unbuckled the strap of her heels. Bridget inhaled and didn't let the breath out. Small beads of sweat began to collect on her brow and upper lip. The anticipation was excruciating…and yet she was growing excited.

Repeating the process with her left foot, Landa placed her heels tidily next to the chaise. Her legs were extended before him, stocking-clad toes pointed. She felt like a ballet dancer.

He brought his mouth down upon her feet, one and then the other, relishing in the feel of the stocking against his lips and chin. Grasping the material between his front teeth, he pulled back, like a dog playing with a length of frayed rope. His fingers clawed at the garter straps, ripping at them, trying to get to the tender flesh beneath. Bridget silently offered to assist him in their removal, but her hands were briskly swatted away.

At last the straps broke away, and he tore the stockings from her long legs, his tongue running their length from kneecap to the ball of her foot. Supporting one foot in each hand, Landa stood, raising of her legs with him, giving him what was sure to be an excellent view in the process. He gazed appreciatively.

Rubbing his hands down the length of her legs, he reached her thighs and gave them a squeeze, before leaning forward and tugging her dress free from her body. He had already mostly removed the thing; this was just a formality.

Bridget shivered. Thousands of people had seen her face magnified on the screen, had seen right into her as she bared her soul for them, and still she had never felt so exposed. Though the lingerie had seemed like a good idea at the start of the night, now she simply felt silly. Landa, however, was not aware of her discomfort. In fact, she was entirely sure that he had no use for anything from her above her bellybutton. Not once had he given any thought to her, admittedly modest, chest. Nor did he care for her slender waist or enviable shoulders and long arms.

Regaining his upright position, Landa took control, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her toward him, her legs in an uncomfortable upright position so that her heels rested on his shoulders. She felt rather stupid this way, but knew from his tell-tale arousal that she had no say in the matter.

What followed held little pretense. Apparently the Colonel considered slathering her feet with his tongue to be an adequate amount of foreplay. He wrenched away the carefully selected panties, and then began to work on his buckle. Were it not for the slight tremor in his hands, she would think him completely in control. Soon his pants were around his ankles, and his manhood was revealed to her. Bridget wanted to pretend that she had no interest in it, yet she couldn't help but sneak a look.

She wasn't a prude. She'd seen her fair share of flesh, and Hans Landa measured up in the most average of ways. Lengths, girth, color were all so normal that she was a bit disappointed. She had secretly hoped him to be of freakishly small or grotesque size, something to hold comfort in while he used her body.

And use her body he did. With her hips at an odd angle, her long legs resting against his upper body, Landa completely ignored her discomfort and plowed into her, thankfully finding her somewhat slick. He fucked like a man with no care for the receiving end of his cock, his attention focused completely on the beautiful toes by his ears as they wiggled. His tongue coated her arches, the balls of her feet, between her toes. At the height of his flesh-slapping thrusts, he took all five red tipped toes of her right foot into his mouth, sucking like a baby at mother's breast. As his hips ground into her, she felt his solid middle-aged body seize in orgasm, and he bit down onto her toes. Hard. Bridget cried out, and Landa smiled with self-satisfaction.

He stood there, still buried inside of her, until he grew soft. Pulling away from her sweat-soaked thighs, he gazed down at the Teutonic beauty, at her sopping wet core, gaze traveling up the haphazard lingerie, her long neck, to her lidded eyes. He cleared his throat.

"Ahem. Consider our bargain fulfilled."


End file.
